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and self-esteem. Time ran out before she got a chance. Goddammit, she died thinking of herself as a failure.”
    The older man’s misery struck a rare, responsive chord in Van. He gave the task of consoling Irish his best shot. “About that other—you know, how you felt about her mother? Well, Avery knew.”
    Irish’s red, weepy eyes focused on him. “How do you know?”
    “She told me once,” Van said. “I asked her just how long you two had known each other. She said you were in her memory as far back as it went. She had guessed that you secretly loved her mother.”
    “Did she seem to care?” Irish asked anxiously. “I mean, did it seem to bother her?”
    Van shook his long, stringy hair.
    Irish withdrew the wilting rose from the breast pocket of his dark suit and rubbed his pudgy fingers over the fragile petals. “Good. I’m glad. I loved them both.”
    His heavy shoulders began to shake. He curled his fingers into a tight fist around the rose. “Oh, hell,” he groaned, “I’m going to miss her.”
    He lowered his head to the table and sobbed brokenly while Van sat across from him, nursing his own grief in his own way.

Four
    Avery woke up knowing who she was.
    She had never exactly forgotten. It was just that her medication, along with her concussion, had left her confused.
    Yesterday—or at least she guessed it had been yesterday, since everyone who had recently come within her range of vision had greeted her with a “good morning”—she had been disoriented, which was understandable. Waking after having been comatose for several days to find that she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t see beyond a very limited range would confound anyone. She was rarely ill, certainly not seriously, so being this injured was shocking.
    The ICU, with its constant light and activity, was enough to hamper anyone’s mental process. But what really had Avery puzzled was that everyone was addressing her incorrectly. How had she come to be mistaken for a woman named Carole Rutledge? Even Mr. Rutledge seemed convinced that he was speaking to his wife.
    Somehow, she must communicate this mistake to them. But she didn’t know how, and that frightened her.
    Her name was Avery Daniels. It was clearly printed on her driver’s license, her press pass, and all the other forms of identification in her wallet. They had probably been destroyed in the crash, she thought.
    Memories of the crash tended to panic her still, so she determinedly put them aside to be dealt with later, when she was stronger and had this temporary mix-up straightened out.
    Where was Irish? Why hadn’t he come to her rescue?
    The obvious answer startled her unexpectedly. Her whole body reacted as though it had been electrically charged. It was unthinkable, untenable, yet it was glaringly apparent. If she had been mistaken for Mrs. Rutledge, and Mrs. Rutledge was believed alive, then Avery Daniels was believed dead.
    She imagined the anguish Irish must be going through. Her “death” would hit him hard. For the present, however, she was helpless to alleviate his suffering. No! As long as she was alive, she wasn’t helpless. She must think. She must concentrate.
    “Good morning.”
    She recognized his voice immediately. The swelling in her eye must have gone down some because she could see him more clearly. His previously blurred features were now distinct.
    His heavy, well-shaped brows almost met above the bridge of a long, straight nose. He had a strong, stubborn jawline and chin, yet it fell short of being pugnacious, despite the vertical cleft at the edge of it. His lips were firm, wide, and thin, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper.
    He was smiling, but not with his eyes, she noted. He didn’t really feel the smile. It didn’t come from his soul. Avery wondered why not.
    “They said you had a restful night. Still no sign of pulmonary infection. That’s terrific news.”
    She knew this face, this voice. Not from yesterday.